Ngaio Marsh - Spinsters in Jeopardy

Factories pulled down in Turkey were rebuilt in Bulgaria. Big centralized industries were busted only to reappear like crops of small ulcers in other places. But something was attempted and a certain amount was achieved by 1939.”

“Oh, dear! History at it again?”

“More or less. The difference lies in the fact that this time the preliminary work had been done and the machinery for investigation partly set up. But the Second World War did its stuff and everything lapsed. U.N.O. doesn’t start from scratch in the way that the League did. But it faces the old situation and it’s still up against the Big Boys. The police still catch the sprats at the customs counter and miss the mackerels in high places. The factories have again moved: from Bulgaria into post-war Italy and from post-war Italy, it appears, into the Paysdoux of Southern France. And the Big Boys have moved with them. Particularly Dr. Baradi and Mr. Oberon.”

“Are they really big?”

“Not among the tops, perhaps. There we climb into very rarefied altitudes and by as hazardous a road as this one. But Oberon and Baradi are certainly in the mackerel class. Oberon, I regret to tell you, is a British subject at the moment although he began in the Middle East where he ran a quack religion of a dubious sort and got six months for his pains. He came to us by way of Portugal and Egypt. In Portugal he practiced the same game during the war and made his first connection with the dope trade. In Egypt he was stepped up in the racket and made the acquaintance of his chum Baradi. By that time he’d acquired large sums of money. Two fortunes fell into his lap from rich disciples in Lisbon — middle-aged women, who became Daughters of the Sun or something, remade their wills and died shortly afterwards.”

“Oh, Lord!”

“You may well say so. Baradi’s a different story. Baradi was a really brilliant medical student who trained in Paris and has become one of the leading surgeons of his time. He had some sort of entrée to court circles in Cairo and, thanks to his skill and charms, any number of useful connections in France. You may not think him very delicious but it appears that a great many women do. He got in with the Boys in Paris and Egypt and is known to be a trafficker in a big way. It’s his money and Oberon’s that’s behind the Chemical Company of the Maritime Alps. That’s as much as the combined efforts of the international police, the Sûreté and the Yard have gleaned about Baradi and Oberon, and it’s on that information I’m meant to act.”

“And is Ricky a spanner in the works?”

“He may be a spanner in their works, my pretty. He gives us an excuse for getting into the factory. They may have played into our hands when they took Ricky into the factory.”

“ If they took him there,” Troy said under her breath.

“If they drove beyond the turn-off to the factory the patrols would have got them. Of course he may be maddening the monks in the monastery further up.”

“Mightn’t the car have pushed on and come round by this appalling route?”

“The patrols on the eastern route will get it if it did and there are no fresh tyre tracks.”

“It’s so strange,” Troy said, “to hear you doing your stuff.”

Raoul humoured the car down a steep incline and past a pink-washed hovel overhanging the cliff. A peasant stood in the doorway. At Alleyn’s suggestion Raoul called to him.

“ Hé friend! Any other driver come this way today?”

“ Pas un de si bête !”

“That was: ‘no such fool,’ wasn’t it?” Troy asked.

“It was.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

They bumped and sidled on for some time without further conversation. Raoul sang. The sky was a deeper blue and the Mediterranean, now almost purple, made unexpected gestures between the tops of hills. Troy and Alleyn each thought privately how much, in spite of the road, they would have enjoyed themselves if Ricky had been with them.

Presently Raoul, speaking slowly out of politeness to Troy, pointed to a valley they were about to enter.

“The Monastery Road. M’sieur — Madame. We descend.”

They did so, precipitately. The roofs of the Monastery of Our Lady of Paysdoux appeared, tranquil and modest, folded in a confluence of olive groves. As they came into the lower valley they looked down on an open place where a few cars were parked and where visitors to the cloisters moved in and out of long shadows. The car dived down behind the monastery, turned and ran out into the head of a good sealed road. “The factory,” Raoul said, “is round the next bend. Beyond, Monsieur can see the main road and away to the right is the headland with the tunnel that comes out by the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent.”

“Is there a place lower down and out of sight of the factory where we can watch the main road on the Roqueville side?”

“Yes, Monsieur. As one approaches the bend.”

“Let us stop there for a moment.”

“Good, Monsieur.”

Raoul’s point of observation turned out to be a pleasant one overlooking the sea and commanding a full view of the main road as it came through the hills from Roqueville. He ran the car to the outer margin of their road and stopped. Alleyn looked at his watch. “A quarter past four. The works shut down at five. I hope Dupont’s punctual. We’ll have a. final check. Raoul first, darling, if you don’t mind. See how much you can follow and keep your eye on the main road for the police car. Alors, Raoul.”

Raoul turned to listen. He had taken off his chauffeur’s cap, and his head, seen in profile against the Homeric blue of the Mediterranean, took on classic air. Its colour was a modulation of the tawny earth. Grape-like curls clustered behind his small ears, his mouth was fresh, reflected light bloomed on his cheekbones and his eyes held a look of untroubled acceptance. It was a beautiful head, and Troy thought: “When we’re out of this nightmare I shall want to paint it.”

Alleyn was saying: “…so you will remain at first in the car. After a time I may fetch or send for you. If I do you will come into the office and tell a fairy story. It will be to this effect…”

Raoul listened impassively, his eyes on the distant road. When Alleyn had done, Raoul made a squaring movement with his shoulders, blew out his cheeks into a mock-truculent grimace and intimated that he was ready for anything.

“Now, darling,” Alleyn said, “do you think you can come in with me and keep all thought of our inside information out of your mind? You know only this: Ricky has been kidnapped and Raoul has seen him being driven into the factory. I’m going to have a shot at the general manager, who is called Callard. We don’t know much about him. He’s a Parisian who worked in the States for a firm that was probably implicated in the racket and he speaks English. Any of the others we may run into may also speak English. We’ll assume, whatever we find, that they understand it. So don’t say anything to me that they shouldn’t hear. On the other hand, you can with advantage keep up an agitated chorus. I shall speak bad French. We don’t know what may develop so we’ll have to keep our heads and ride the skids as we meet them. How do you feel about it?”

“Should I be a brave little woman biting on the bullet or should I go in, boots and all, and rave?”

“Rave if you feel like it, my treasure. They’ll probably expect it.”

“I daresay a Spartan mother would seem more British in their eyes or is that a contradiction in terms? Oh, Rory!” Troy said in a low voice. “It’s so grotesque. Here we are half-crazy with anxiety and we have to put on a sort of anxiety act. It’s — it’s a cruel thing, isn’t it?”